


Molotov cocktail

by TheSingerThatYouWanted (orphan_account)



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Basically everyone is drunk and sex happens, Because of aforementioned drunkenness, Drunk Sex, Julian's red shirt of sex, M/M, very mild dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:26:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5267834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheSingerThatYouWanted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian is very drunk and everyone seems to want a piece of him, and he is absolutely okay with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Molotov cocktail

**Author's Note:**

> Set on that night where Julian is clearly completely plastered and literally everyone is all over him. You know the one. There are photos. He's wearing his red shirt.  
> Also, look! I wrote smut! This is new for me, so please be kind with your feedback. Add some constructiveness to your criticism.

He's not quite sure how he got here, spread out on the table like this. There's a bottle of vodka in his hand and some tequila by his feet that may offer a clue, but right now his brain's a little too fuzzy to connect the dots. He's not worried. It's quite nice, really. There's always been something a bit exciting about being on a table. He thinks it comes from being a kid, a little boy in primary school always told not to sit on the desks, to stay in his seat like he's supposed to- so, naturally, he was always up like a shot as soon as the teacher was out of the room. Other than that he usually stayed more or less in line, not counting the stories he wrote that were so odd that one teacher phoned his parents about them. He giggles quietly to himself at the memory. Thirty-odd years on and his stories have only got stranger. And there's still something fun about sitting on tables.

This table, he decides vaguely, is his favourite table. It has alcohol on it and it also has him on it, which is already an excellent start, and it's surrounded by people almost as drunk as he is. They're touching him a lot, laughing as they do. He's pretty sure for a while he had someone straddling his chest, but that's hovering just on the edge of his memory. Now it's all hands. He cracks open his eyes to watch them. Dee, down by his stomach, is clutching a bottle of Bailey's and watching him with sparkling eyes. He smiles at her, sharp teeth against pink lips, a grin he usually reserves for Noel. He can't see Noel, but he trusts Dee to pass on the smile for him.

He keeps watching Dee, a truly familiar face in a crowd of acquaintances, as she smiles back. Slowly, deliberately, she lets a little of the Bailey's trickle from the bottle and onto his stomach. His shirt seems to be crumpled up, or falling open. He doesn't remember that happening, but when someone else- Melvis?- presses their tongue to his stomach and licks the alcohol up in one long stripe he decides there are worse things, there are so many worse things than this, the delicious friction sending a shiver down to the base of his spine. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that Dee has been watching Melvis too, biting her lower lip and ruffling her hair. He catches himself wondering where else that drunken tongue has been tonight.

He fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette and lighter, but only manages one of the two. He puts it in his mouth on only his third try. That's an achievement. He smiles around it, enjoying the familiar feeling in his mouth even if he can't light it. Dee notices and laughs, loud and bright, and reaches out towards his face. Her fingers scratch lightly through the stubble on his cheeks, and a soft moan escapes his lips before he can stop it. The sensation is like a buzz against his skin, a tingling sensation that runs right through him. He closes his eyes, letting it fill him. Soft and fuzzy and warm, tension and release, harsh and comforting.

There's a hand against his thigh now, moving upwards. Is he hard? Apparently so, judging by the way he shudders at the soft squeeze an unknown hand gives the bulge in his trousers. That's a nice surprise. He wonders what will happen if he rolls his hips up into it, and moans again, louder, when the hand begins to set a lazy rhythm. Oh. That is definitely nice. More than nice. Brilliant, god, beyond brilliant. Dee's still stroking at his cheeks, too, and he couldn't stop moving now if he tried. His tongue plays with the end of his cigarette, mouth desperate for something to do, and as the hand on his cock moves away the filter is plucked from his lips. He whimpers and squints upwards.

Noel beams down at him, holding the cigarette in one hand. The other- stained with paint and fruit juice- rests against his stomach, at the point where Melvis' tongue was pressed only minutes before. His blue eyes are dark, wild hair flying in all directions.

"Alright, Ju?" he asks with a grin. "You been getting into trouble without me?"

Julian can't help but crack a smile.

"Didn't mean to," he replies. "You wandered off."

A dazzling smile in response, then chapped lips against his and a hand making its way downwards again. Julian arches up into it, kissing Noel like it's all he knows how to do. In that moment, it might as well be. He doesn't think about the fact they're still in the middle of the room, still surrounded by people, still drunk. He doesn't think about what he can hear, filtering out everything- his own increasingly breathy groans, the voices of his friends, everything except the soft noises Noel is making against his lips, the faint but audible sound of skin on skin as Noel's hand finally slips below the waistband of his underwear.

"Noel..."

He can't believe how desperate he sounds. He doesn't even want to think about how he must look, limbs loose and relaxed, drunk and flushed and sweating with his best mate's hand wrapped around his cock.

"Noel, 'm not gonna... Gonna last... Mmmmph, god, do that again."

Noel's smirk is almost audible.

"What, this?"

He repeats the movement, a swift swirl of his thumb around the head of Julian's cock, and the world blurs for a moment as his climax hits. Tension and release, toes curled, overwhelming, and Noel kisses him again, using a corner of Julian's shirt to wipe the mess from his stomach. He's not quite sure how this is an improvement, but he's not arguing.

The bottle slips from Julian's hand, spilling onto Noel's shoes. His muscles have just given up on him. There's no way he can move now, not when he's this fucked up, this full of alcohol and endorphins and exhaustion. God, he is plastered. His head's gonna take that out on him in the morning. For now, though, he's content to just lie there on his favourite table. Noel perches on the edge of it, looking down at him and gently placing the cigarette back between his lips. Julian grins.

"Don't suppose you've got a light."

"Nah. Don't take one near alcohol, do I? Could set us all off."

"Like well-dressed explosives."

Noel laughs, tipping his head back.

"Molotov cocktails. Shaken, not stirred."

Tiredness is building behind his eyes, gathering momentum as it goes. The last thing he's aware of before he falls asleep is that he's laughing at Noel's joke, and Noel's leaning down to rest against his chest.

In the end, he reckons it's almost worth the hangover.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously this is entirely a work of fiction, I am not trying to suggest any of this actually happened, and I have no ownership of the characters/people mentioned here. Please leave me some feedback if you've got a moment, it means a lot.


End file.
